


the beating of our hearts is the only sound

by the_most_beautiful_broom



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Lawyers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Falling In Love, Idiots in Love, Lawyers, Modern Era, Mutual Pining, Seattle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27224665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom
Summary: After 1,000 first dates, Clarke Griffin is still single. Bellamy Blake likes to think he's above a simple cash grab gotcha lawsuit, but something's got to pay the bills, and the new client is more charming than he'd like to admit. The case might teach them a thing or two about love, guarantees, and first impressions || or a genderbent Love Guaranteed AU
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 21
Kudos: 126
Collections: The t100 Writers for BLM Initiative





	the beating of our hearts is the only sound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bellarkeness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellarkeness/gifts).



Seattle’s not a bad place to end up. 

Bellamy doesn’t mind the Seahawks, and being near the ocean is nice, plus it’s where Octavia decided she wanted to settle, so he’d bought a duplex and she and her husband and their kid had moved into the second unit, and that was that. 

It’s a busy city, a little hipster, a little less so than it paints itself. Still plenty of corporations run by old men getting richer off underpaid workers, still lawsuits that people try to brush under the rug. Which isn’t great for morale, but it does give him a job.

Although, he can practically hear Raven saying, it doesn’t count as a job if it’s all pro bono. 

Raven’s his accountant.

She's also the accountant for pretty much everyone else with an office in the Arkadia building downtown. She went door to door when the building opened, specifically to all the smaller practices, told everyone that they’d think they could handle their own finances but would pull their hair out come March, and dropped off her business card. Bellamy’s pretty sure there’s not a practice-owner in the building who doesn’t have her on speed dial. 

The only other person in the office is Miller, technically his partner at their self-entitled firm, but Miller does the paper trail type of law—intellectual property, estate management, immigration. He’s the one that helps people up, Bellamy goes to court for personal injury, when they’ve been knocked down.

Bellamy tries not to think about who’s actually paying the bills at the place, since it really does ebb and flow based on cases. 

It’s fall in Seattle—not quite as picturesque as New England, but there’s a crispness in the air when Bellamy steps out of the duplex. He’s sure rain will blow in by the time he gets to the coffee stand down the street from Arkadia. He should say, by the time he makes it to the coffee stand, because with the way his old car is running on fumes and the prayers of angels, it is a mercy that he makes it there at all. 

Maybe the door handle falls off when he shuts it, maybe he tucks the metal handle into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, as a problem for Bellamy-but-this-evening to solve. Bellamy-right-now needs coffee.

Murphy’s the guy who runs the coffee truck, serving strong espresso and ridiculously delicious pastries. He’s also Bellamy’s roommate from undergrad. 

The first time Bellamy came by, he ordered an americano; Murphy had made him a caramel apple latte. It was delicious, but the sugar high had kept him buzzed until 10pm; when he told Murphy, the man shrugged and said it was his way of combating toxic masculinity. Bellamy’s tried to tell him that it isn’t wanting to look tough that has him ordering espresso and water, but his body’s inability to process sugar when he can practically chew his drink, it’s so thick with it, but Murphy’s unrelenting. Bellamy doesn’t bother ordering now, just waits for whatever artery-clogging drink Murphy will pass to him. 

Today it’s a pumpkin spice latte. 

Before Bellamy can roll his eyes, he gets a call from one of his clients; he glares at Murphy who practically preens when he realizes there’ll be no fight today. 

It’s Vera on the phone, nothing too crazy, but a lot of tears.

He assures her that her landlord can’t put a padlock on her front door.

Yes, he’s certain. 

It’s not just immoral, it’s illegal. Yes, he’s 100% positive.

Murphy bellows that he has a pumpkin spice latte at the bar, and Bellamy shakes his head at him as he slides down to the end of the truck for a sleeve.

Yes, Vera, he will sort it out with her landlord’s lawyer as soon as he’s back at the office.

He turns, quickly, nearly dumps his pumpkin spice latte onto a blonde girl behind him.

She has really pretty eyes, he thinks, then she smiles and he wants to think of a reaction to that too, but Vera is asking worriedly if he’s still there, if she’s going to get kicked out of her apartment, when he can sort it out…

So he whispers an apology to the woman he nearly collided with, and steps around her and into the rain again. 

He talks Vera into hanging up when he’s a block from the Arkadia building, which is about the time he realizes someone’s walking the same way as him, same speed. 

It’s the blonde girl from the cart.

“It’s a scam, you know,” she says.

She has a deeper voice than he would’ve expected. Not that because she’s blonde she has to sound like barbie, he just wasn’t expecting it.

“What is?” he asks.

“PSLs,” she says.

“Oh,” Bellamy looks down at the drink in his hand. “It’s a running joke with Murphy, he—”

“There’s no pumpkin in it,” she says, and Bellamy gets the feeling she didn’t notice he’d responded. “Every fall the food services industry likes to schill pumpkin like it’s growing like dandelions, but it’s just sugar.”

Bellamy looks at her out of the corner of his eyes. It’s weird, because her voice sounds like it’s an interesting fact but something about it rubs him the wrong way. She’s wearing those heels with the red soles that only celebrities and trust fund kids wear. It doesn’t explain why she’s walking this direction, much less talking to him, but it does make sense that she’s used to being heard out.

“Thanks for the economics lesson,” he says. 

She shrugs. “Not my best work, but since we’re walking in the same direction, I figured I should say something.”

“I can fall back a step or two,” Bellamy says, only half kidding. He’s still not awake yet and he’s not sure if this is flirting or condescension, but he doesn’t have enough caffeine in his system to deal with either. 

She whistles. “Didn’t know it was that bad.”

Bellamy almost feels bad. “It wasn’t,” he says, and she snorts.

“You’re not a very good liar.”

Bellamy thinks that he’s a lawyer, hypothetically, lying is what he does best. He turns as they reach the intersection, and the woman turns too. 

“Are you?” he asks, because now that he’s aware of the silence and he gets why she jumped to sales under capitalism.

“Depends who you ask,” she says. “Where are you going?”

“Blake and Miller Associates,” Bellamy grabs the door, holding it open. 

“I could get that,” she says, eyebrows lowering slightly.

“Didn’t say you couldn’t,” Bellamy says.

Her frown deepens, but she tips her head and ducks inside. 

The lobby’s crowded, as per usual, but the woman sticks pretty close to him as he walks through it. He’s used to that; Octavia says it’s like a tugboat following a cruise ship through a harbor—you have to go right behind, otherwise traffic surges immediately to fill the wake. 

She gets into the elevator with him, and he looks at her after pressing the button for the ninth floor. 

She shakes her head. “I’m good.”

The elevator door dings.

“So,” Bellamy shrugs out of his raincoat as the elevator begins to climb. “What’s wrong with your foot?”

She looks down, then back up at him. “Beg your pardon?”

“Ninth floor, just my office and Dr. Keen, the Podiatrist.”

“Your office?” she asks.

“Blake and Miller Associates,” Bellamy reiterates. 

“I assume you’re Bellamy Blake?” she asks, after a minute.

Bellamy frowns, wondering when this switched from happenstance to stalker territory. “I am, yeah. And you are?”

The elevator dings on the ninth floor, and he gestures for her to get out first, which she does.

“Your 9am,” she says, striding over to the door, pulling it open in a ‘my turn’ gesture. “Nice to meet you.” 

He...he should’ve seen that coming.

“Okay then,” he says, stepping past the blonde and her smirk. 

The office is what he envisioned a lawyer’s office would be when he was a kid—filled with books and rolled up blueprints, crowded with papers and a coat rack like it’s a noir film. He hangs his jacket on it and the woman pulls off her coat. 

“Okay, give me a second to get—” Bellamy starts, but there’s a bang from Miller’s office and the sound of feet hitting the floor as a chair snaps up from reclining. 

“Blake, is that you?” the man yells, and Bellamy clears his throat. 

“It is, yeah, and I have a—”

“A 9am consultation you’re almost late for? Yeah, I know, I booked her when you were in court on Friday. And for the record, if you give another case away pro bono, Poland Spring is coming to take back our water cooler.”

The woman looks like she wants to laugh at that.

“Warm welcome,” she says to him, then raises her voice. “So what I’m hearing is that the retainer isn’t negotiable?” 

The room is silent.

A moment later the door opens and Miller leans against it, crossing his arms. He looks at the two of them, deciding if he wants to decide to recover, before he lifts his chin at the woman. “Clarke Griffin?”

She nods. “Nathan Miller?” 

“Miller’s fine,” he says, then looks at Bellamy. “Well, at least you’re both late.”

Bellamy doesn’t have an answer for that so he just shrugs, walks over to the office and opens the door. The woman mimes a salute at Miller, who makes one back, and Bellamy shuts the office door behind the two of them.

“Okay, so, what can I do for you, Miss Griffin?” he asks, gesturing to a chair across from his desk. She takes it, then frowns around the office. 

Bellamy waits. 

After a moment, she focuses back on him. “I need a lawyer,” she says. “And your reputation precedes you.”

Bellamy’s a lot of things, but someone who gets referrals isn’t one of them. He picks up a pencil, tapping the end of it on the pad of paper on his desk. “Does it?”

Clarke raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. Classiest ambulance chaser in the business, I’ve been told.”

“Civil Litigator,” Bellamy says, instead of taking the bait. 

“Sure,” Clarke says. “What’s your going rate?”

“What’s your case?” he asks.

Clarke looks like she might smile, and Bellamy gets the feeling the condescension is an extended form of vetting. She lifts her chin. “I want to sue Love Guaranteed.”

“The dating website?” he asks, writing it on the pad.

“Yep. You can write ‘fraud’ under that.”

“Fraud?” Bellamy echoes.

“With an ‘au’,” Clarke says.

Bellamy doesn’t look up. 

“Explain,” he says.

Clarke adjusts the hem of her blazer. “Love Guaranteed takes $29.95 a month and delivers lies and empty promises.”

He looks up, still writing, shorthand. “I don’t—”

“I have been on 986 dates, and not one of them has provided me love.” Clarke leans back in the chair. “How’s that for a guarantee?”

Bellamy’s pencil freezes.

“Nine hundred,” he says, just checking, “and eight-six dates?”

Clarke nods. “Yeah. The Subscriber Agreement says that a user must go on a thousand dates for the guarantee to apply; I should hit that next week.”

Bellamy goes back to shorthand, processing. “These are with real people, right?”

Clarke smiles, slightly. “What about that surprises you?”

Admittedly, nothing. She could probably pull just about anyone, but 986 is a staggering number, in terms of practicality. 

“There’s 365 days in a year,” he says, not even needing to do the mental math on that one. 

“And three meals a day,” she shrugs. “Four, on Saturdays and Sundays, if you count brunch. Cocktail hours on weeknights, sometimes. And before you say anything, of course I paid.”

Bellamy looks up. “It’s 2020, isn’t it?”

Clarke hums. “You’d be shocked how many men just quaked at that.”

Bellamy’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be surprised. 

He sets down the pencil, lines it parallel with the top of the page. “Look,” he says carefully, “I know Civil Litigators don’t have the best rep, and Miller didn’t paint a very flattering picture of my part of the firm’s profitability, but I’m really not interested in a Gotcha lawsuit.”

“Is that the technical term?”

“Find the loophole, take the easy cash.”

Clarke tilts her head, looking down at her nails. She frowns a little, pushing back the cuticle on her index finger with her thumb. “Not to be indelicate, Mr. Blake,” she says, switching to her middle finger, “I’m not really desperate for easy cash.”

She certainly doesn’t look to be. 

Still, he has to have some sort of lawful integrity to stand upon. 

She clears her throat before he can answer. “Look, whatever you think of me, this is a company that’s profiting off people’s loneliness.”

Bellamy sits back in his chair and looks at her.

She’s a contradiction, among other things.

She dresses like old money, but she walked here. She’s gone on almost a thousand dates, but professes to carry a penchant for justice. She’s proud, if a little smug, but she doesn’t seem arrogant. 

He realizes eventually that she’s looking back at him, doing the same sort of mental evaluation he is. Her mouth quirks a little, and she shifts, lifting her purse onto her lap. She pulls out a checkbook and scribbles a line or two in it, holding her pen between her teeth while she rips out the check. 

“That should be your retainer, I believe,” she says, setting the check on the desk. “I’ll see myself out.”

He watches her go, refraining from checking the paper on the desk. At the doorway she pauses, looks back at him, her hand on the door. 

She taps her toe against the floor. “Actually, that should be about double it. Let me know when you’ve reviewed the case details.”

She steps through the door, her heels clicking away through the office, and fading once she exits into the hallway. 

Bellamy picks up the pencil again, poking the top of the legal pad with it. He leaves the check where it is; she has no reason to exaggerate, and he has no reason to doubt her. He turns the chair to his desktop, typing slowly, then pulls the pad of paper over to it. 

She has a case, they both know it, and he has a lot of work to do. 

\--

Predictably enough, Octavia loses her mind. 

She’s eight months pregnant and going stir crazy, so it makes sense that she needs a hyperfixation, but Bellamy is impressed at the speed with which she jumps from inquiring why he has a dating site pulled up on his tablet to begging him to take the case.

He doesn’t tell her he can’t afford not to. 

She offers to help with any and all research, which she seems to believe include making a profile for Bellamy, which Bellamy declines.

It’s not that he’s old-fashioned. 

Or a Romantic.

Or like he broke his DVD player back in college, replaying _When Harry Met Sally_ ad infinitum after he and Gina split.

No, what Bellamy is is pragmatic. Statistically, there are plenty of people online that could probably be convinced into going out with him. Statistically, he’d probably like some of them. 

Realistically, he doesn’t have the bandwidth for it.

Sure, it’d be nice to come home to someone, or whatever, but he’s a lawyer. He lives off of takeout and takeout and takeout again, but special on Sundays; he is constantly taking calls from underdog clients and it’s okay, he chose this life.

There’s just not really room in it for a significant other.

Especially now, that the case that’s going to keep his firm afloat happens to involve taking on Fortune 500’s very own Charmaine Diyoza—Hollywood royalty, lifestyle influencer, and CEO of Love Guaranteed. 

She’s the breed of celebrity that has lawyers who could make the Pentagon cry, and Bellamy’s going up against her with...with case files.

It’s helpful and terrifying that Clarke Griffin apparently felt compelled to document every single one of her dates. She has them dropped off to Arkadia the following morning and if Bellamy had ever wondered what 986 dates look like on paper (he hadn’t), now he knows.

Bellamy hadn’t expected his client herself to show up to walk him through them.

But she breezes into the office, makes herself comfortable amid the boxes of files in his desk, and Bellamy shuts the door to put a physical barricade between himself and Miller’s gleeful expression.

She has them labeled like Friends episodes.

The One Who Talked About Cats All Night.

The One Who Brought Her Parents.

The One Who Became a Botanist Because of Neville Longbottom.

The One Who Probably Would Legit be into Neville Longbottom.

Apparently naming them helps her keep the nineteen Emilys, twelve Jameses and three Briannas straight in her head. 

In his peripheral vision, Bellamy’s pretty sure Raven has popped into the office, and she and Miller are hovering in the lobby, being very unsubtle about looking through the window at him and Clarke. 

Clarke leaves at a quarter to ten because she has a breakfast date, which, really, Bellamy should’ve seen coming. 

He starts counting as soon as the door shuts and it opens again before he’s gotten to seven.

“Look at you, Bellamy Blake,” Raven chimes, sliding into the office, Miller right behind her. “Finally using your law degree for sex.”

“I’m not—” Bellamy starts, but Miller cuts him off. 

“We know, we know, it’s all very PG up in here. Wishful thinking.”

“Wishful thinking,” Raven sighs. “So, who is that?”

“A client,” Bellamy says, emphatically. 

“A pretty client,” Miller says, like that’s important. 

Bellamy closes the files on his desk. “Why are you guys here?”

“We’re bored,” Raven says, “and she seems more interesting than anything on Nathan’s docket.”

“So what’s her deal? Did someone run over her pedigreed poodle?” Miller asks.

Raven hums. “She does seem the type with a $3k dog.”

“Nah,” Miller slumps into a chair, “this is too much paperwork for that.”

“She was written out of her great aunt’s will?” Raven proposes. 

“She’s being framed for the murder of said great aunt?”

“She’s—”

“Guys,” Bellamy interrupts, knowing they’ll keep spiraling. “None of the above. We’re suing Love Guaranteed.”

Raven’s face lights up. “The...dating app?”

“You’re kidding,” Miller says, voice absolutely brimming with glee.

“I’m not,” Bellamy says, straightening the files. “Don’t either of you have jobs—”

“Nothing that beats this,” Raven grins. “You, Nate?”

“Not a thing,” Miller says, folding his hands in his lap. “What, for emotional negligence?”

Bellamy clears his throat. “For fraud.”

“Loophole in the contract?” Raven perches on the side of the desk. 

“Yeah. The fine print in the user agreement guarantees love.”

Miller whistles. “You’d think having enough money to buy out LA would get Diyoza at least one lawyer to advise against that.” 

Bellamy pinches the bridge of his nose. “Those lawyers didn’t think anyone would go on a thousand dates and come up empty.”

“A thousand…” Raven echoes. “Like a third of a poodle?”

“Three zeroes?” Miller asks. 

Bellamy nods.

It’s insane, he knows it. 

Hearing it back from his friends doesn’t make it any less so. 

“Damn,” Raven shakes her head. “You know how to pick ‘em, Bell.”

“Don’t I know it,” Bellamy mutters.

“Is there a case here, Blake?” Miller asks, amusement pausing for genuine concern. “I know you’re not selling out here but…?”

“But am I selling out?” Bellamy finishes the question; it’s fair. 

Raven looks between them. “A Bellamy Blake speech, this way comes.”

He ignores that. 

“Okay, yeah, it’s a loophole. The corporation really didn’t intend for anyone to go on a thousand dates, that’s ludicrous.” Bellamy stops, looking over the files on his desk, then back at his friends. “But if we look at what they’re actually doing, they’re reducing love to statistics. If you throw a person at enough other people, eventually they’ll stick. And so you have people—lonely, broken, people—risking themselves time and time again and hoping they’re not the one that breaks the statistic.”

“So you do have a case,” Miller says.

“Incredible,” Raven says, fake awed. “How does he do it?”

“Because he’s a romantic,” Miller laughs.

“I’m not,” Bellamy bristles. “The whole point of this practice is to make sure people aren’t getting taken advantage of by—”

“You can say this is against corporations all you want, Bellamy,” Miller interrupts. “At the end of the day, you’re the guy who wishes people still courted instead of hooking up, who’d write love letters and believes in candlelit dinners.” 

“Everyone believes in candlelit dinners,” Bellamy mutters.

“Yeah, no we don’t,” Raven says. “This is...this is cute, Bellamy. Good for you.”

“Cute,” Bellamy echoes, chagrined. “Three years at Harvard to be called ‘cute’ by my accountant.”

“You know what I mean,” she says fondly. “No, this is good for you. Fighting for love, instead of just against the man.”

Fighting for love makes it sound like he’s going to a knight’s tournament for Clarke Griffin, which he definitely isn’t. 

“It’s an easy case,” he says, shaking that image. “It’s winnable and it’s ethical and it’s achievable, so we’re doing it.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, buddy,” Miller says, pushing himself to his feet. “Let us know when blondie is back so we can eavesdrop on you two.”

Raven hops off the desk. “Or when your day in court comes. Love a good courtroom drama.”

Bellamy waves them away, reluctantly amused by their antics. 

It’s really not his finest hour. 

But he does believe what he told them—this isn’t just an easy money grab case, there’s something deeper here. And maybe he is a romantic, but more importantly, he’s anti Diyoza, and virtually everything she stands for. 

Bellamy looks back at the files on the desk. 

986 files, 986 dates. 

986 will be 987, in another hour, when Clarke’s done with brunch. 

Conversely, maybe she’s meeting her person while he’s sitting here, reading about The One Who Knows Every Word Of Every Katy Perry Song and The One Who’s Distantly Related To Princess Di. 

Bellamy shakes his head, moving the files around his desk, and tells himself he needs to focus on finding and interviewing some of these people, instead of wondering what his name would be if it were on a manila envelope. 

\--

Finn, the barista, says there’s nothing wrong with Clarke, she just didn’t have the right energy for him. 

Niylah, the home goods empire entrepreneur, says Clakre was honestly perfect, they just didn’t click. 

Wells and Anya and Roan and the dozens of others he interviews over the next week all say the same thing, and Bellamy gets the feeling that every other person on every other file he goes through will agree.

Which means people can get along, admire each other, maybe even be attracted to each other, but there’s that je ne sais quois that Love Guaranteed has no right capping at a thousand dates. 

Which means he might just be able to win this thing. 

Bellamy finishes up an interview out of town, and realizes he’s close to the rehabilitation center where one of his past clients goes for physical therapy. 

It’s close enough to 5pm that the highway will be crazy crowded, so he might as well swing by and check in with Marcus until it passes. 

The secretary recognizes him and tells him PT Room 7 without him asking. The gym is crowded, and it always makes Bellamy’s heart sink, just a little. Yeah, he won Marcus’s case, and that suit was enough to pay for physical therapy, and then some. But he can’t take everyone’s case, and every time he comes to visit, familiar faces are missing when they can’t afford the expenses. 

He smiles wide when he swings open the door to the gym, guilt carefully hidden.

Marcus sees him, waves access the way, then quickly returns his hands to the double bars he’s walking between. Bellamy’s crossing the padded floor when he thinks that the trainer working with Marcus looks a little familiar, but he’s not sure how, then she turns and suddenly a lot makes sense.

Clarke Griffin is the doctor supervising Marcus’ recovery. 

Marcus must’ve passed along his info when Clarke needed a lawyer, which explains the wariness with which Clarke came to him, but also why she never outright doubted him.

“Miss Griffin,” he says.

“Mr. Blake,” she says. 

“Good to see you, Bellamy,” Marcus booms. “How are you doing?”

“Aren’t I supposed to be asking you that?”

“You could,” Clarke interjects. “But then he gets another excuse to rest instead of finishing this set of reps. You’ve got thirty seconds left, Marcus, visitor or not.”

Marcus makes a face at Bellamy, but continues the instructions. 

“I didn’t know you worked here,” Bellamy says to Clarke, so he doesn’t distract Marcus. 

“I don’t,” she says, looking down at a clipboard, and scribbling something, not saying anything else. 

“Not going to elaborate on that, or...?” he prompts, and she clicks her pen off. 

“Nope. Excuse me.” She pats Marcus on the back, nods at Bellamy and walks away to another patient across the gym.

“She donates her time,” Marcus pants, grimacing as the exercise strains him. “She’s at the hospital most of the time, but comes out here to help out people like me, who’re on a different payment plan.”

Bellamy looks across the gym, trying to reconcile the woman in scrubs, kneeling next to a wheelchair, with the professional who paced him through downtown. 

“Don’t look so surprised,” Marcus says, a smile on his voice, even as he struggles to catch his breath. “Some people are more complicated than they seem. You’d know a thing about that, though, wouldn’t you?”

Bellamy looks back at the man in front of him, who looks entirely too pleased with himself. “What’s your point?”

“I’m just saying,” Marcus stops the exercise to look at Bellamy. “She’s a good egg. Like you. And two good eggs—”

“Don’t say it.” 

“Make an omelet,” Marcus finishes proudly.

Bellamy had a feeling it was going to end somewhere like that, but it doesn’t mean he’s supposed to encourage that. 

“I’m going to say thank you for the referral,” Bellamy says, shaking his head. “And not a word more.”

Marcus laughs, resuming the exercise. 

So Bellamy figured that means he’s been dismissed. 

Clarke is still scribbling on the clipboard when he comes over to her. 

“Hey,” she says, jerking her head a little to the side so a curl falls to the side, but not looking up. “What are you doing out here anyways?”

“Interviews,” he says. 

She glances up. “Not for a job, I hope?”

Bellamy laughs. “I think I’ll keep my current one, for the time being.”

“That’s a relief,” Clarke says, going back to the notebook. “Oh, guess what tonight is?”

Bellamy runs through a mental list of national holidays, then Canadian ones for good measure, coming up blank. 

“What’s tonight?”

“My one thousandth date,” Clarke says, and she stops writing, raising her eyebrows and capping the pen.

“Oh,” Bellamy says, wondering if congratulations are in order. “I guess that means we officially have a case.”

Clarke frowns. “Did we not before?”

“We had the beginnings of one. Now it’s official.”

“Well, wish me luck,” she says, going back to the clipboard, and Bellamy thinks that that’s twice in just as many minutes that he’s been dismissed.

“That hardly seems appropriate,” he says, without thinking.

Clarke looks up quickly, the curl falling back into her face. She looks at him for a moment, before tucking the hair behind her ear with the end of the pen. “Because of the case?”

Of course.

Right?

No, of course. No other reason he wouldn’t want her to go on a date tomorrow, that would be...complicated. Along with unprofessional and incorrect and a slew of other adjectives. 

Have they been standing this close the whole time?

“Yeah,” Bellamy says, stepping back. “Yeah, the case. Um...I have some papers for you to sign; I can fax them over?”

Clarke is silent for a beat, her blue eyes narrowing. “Sure.”

“Great,” Bellamy says, taking another step back. “Okay. I’m going to go.”

Clarke nods. “Yep, okay.”

“Okay,” Bellamy says.

Clarke goes back to the clipboard and Bellamy figures now’s as good a time as any to leave the gym, pretending not to notice Marcus gloating in the background. 

\-- 

“Hiya, Bellamy,” Murphy’s voice cackles, in the undeniably Murphy way that makes him sound like he’s gloating even if he isn’t. Bellamy’s just parked the car and he opens up the voicemail as he gets out, kicking the door shut, ignoring the horrible squawk of the hinges. “You’re probably driving right now which is why you’re not answering...I guess good job on being a model citizen, but also screw you for not answering the phone, like something’s more important than me.”

Bellamy shakes his head as he walks along Jackson Street, turning up the volume on his phone.

“Uh, anyways,” Murphy says on the recording. “I’m not gonna be able to make it tonight; Em’s having pretty bad morning sickness, so I don’t want to leave her alone. Is it...is it morning sickness if it’s at night? Shit. Em? Hey, Em, where—never mind, doesn’t matter. Yeah I’ll make it up to you later, Blake, sorry for the last minute change.”

Murphy hangs up without saying goodbye and Bellamy can’t find it in himself to be mad at his friend. 

Personally, he’s enjoyed watching his friend give up on his antics and settle into the mush pile of a husband—and soon-to-be-father—that they’ve all known he is. 

Sentimentality aside, it does mean he’s suddenly without plans for dinner. 

He’s walking by Il Terrazzo Carmine when he recognizes a silhouette in the window. She recognizes him too, and he can’t really keep walking, so that’s how he ends up sitting in a private booth at the swankiest Italian restaurant in downtown Seattle across from Clarke Griffin. 

“Are you spying on me?” she asks, face blank but eyes laughing as a waiter comes by to drop off a drinks menu. 

“Believe it or not, I actually had plans,” Bellamy says, leafing through the leather pamphlet. “Speaking of which, don’t you have some?”

“Had some,” Clarke says, reaching across the table. She flips a page back in the menu, pointing to a section on the top. “One of these.”

Bellamy looks at her selections and shrugs; when the waiter comes back, he orders a Cab Franc.

“Past tense?” he clarifies.

“Past tense,” Clarke agrees. “She has classes in the morning.”

Bellamy frowns, in spite of himself, and Clarke snorts. 

“Teaches them, Bellamy. Harper’s an elementary school teacher; I’m not out here recruiting undergrads.”

“That’s...nice,” Bellamy finishes, anticlimactically. 

Clarke tips her head, agreeing. “Nice is a good word. Very nice, very sweet, very kind.” 

Something about how she says it keeps Bellamy from making a joking retort. As unfathomable as a thousand dates is, that’s a thousand people. A thousand opportunities for connection, a thousand misses. 

“You doing okay?” he asks instead. 

Clarke smiles, with her face this time, something soft and a little sad. “I am. Is it—”

She’s interrupted when the waiter comes back with a glass for Bellamy. He looks at the table and leaves again, promising to come back. Bellamy leans forward, elbows on the table, and waits for Clarke to finish. 

She sighs. “It...a part of me was hoping the guarantee would actually work. Wouldn’t it be poetic if the last person, the thousandth, for goodness’ sake, was it? The one?”

Bellamy thinks of how many false impressions he’s had of this woman sitting across from him, and how none of them align with someone who’s tired and searching, and tired from searching. 

“Do you believe in the one?” he asks. 

Clarke turns the stem of her wine glass, slowly. “I did.”

It’s on the tip of Bellamy’s tongue to ask when she stopped, but that’s not his business. It feels like a line he should leave uncrossed, so he lifts his glass instead. 

“To old beliefs,” he says. 

Clarke smiles again, the same sad smile. 

“And the versions of ourselves who believed them,” she says, lifting her glass.

They drink. 

The waiter comes back, and Clarke insists that Bellamy order, even though she already ate. He orders the first special the waiter rattles off because he hates when they recite the whole spiel for nothing and Clarke looks like she wants to laugh because she recognizes it. 

Come to think of it, Bellamy doesn’t think he’s heard her actually laugh. 

He asks about how she ended up as a PT (she played softball, tore her ACL sliding into a base her sophomore year and switched from a surgeon’s path to therapy), and she asks about law (he’s always had a thing for the underdog). 

The waiter comes back with a steaming plate of spaghetti cacio e pepe and Bellamy lets Clarke drive conversation for a minute. 

She’s good at it. 

Not that he didn’t think she would be, but Bellamy’s halfway done with his pasta when he realizes this is the first time in a really long time that he’s been out with someone just to enjoy their company. 

His friends are great, for sure, but there’s always work in the back of his mind, the voice that whispers that he has cases to work on, people to save. 

But with Clarke, it’s different. It’s like he really can just be here, eat his weight in creamy carbs, and that’s it. 

“Wait,” Clarke says, shaking her head. “So little eight year old Bellamy just...ran out of The Fugitive?”

Bellamy pulls his mind back to the conversation. “I’m telling you, I couldn’t take it. I was so mad that they convicted an innocent man; I went and waited in the lobby. My mom was furious…”

He trails off. 

No table-friendly way to say that the movies were the cheapest entertainment they had as kids, and that Mom saved all week for that escape, so that’s why she and O didn’t leave the theater. 

Clarke senses the change, shifts a little in her seat. 

“Well,” she says, clearing her throat. “I’m going to rent it, and make you watch it before the trial is over, okay?”

“Deal,” Bellamy says. 

The table falls quiet for a moment. 

“Alright, your turn,” Clarke says. 

Bellamy looks at her, and she shrugs. 

“I mean, you know all about my love life; what about yours?”

Bellamy’s not sure why, but he knows he’s not ready for that conversation. “Ah, not much to tell,” he defers. 

Clarke rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to flatter you and call bullshit...but I find that hard to believe.”

Bellamy still feels flattered, but she did clearly just say that wasn’t her point.

“I’m running a business, trying to be there for my sister and my friends as best I can...doesn’t leave much time for a partner.”

Clarke’s playing with the stem of her glass again. “So, what, you’ve never had someone you’d call a partner?”

Bellamy thinks of brown curls, teardrops on ancient pages, the smell of evergreen, soft eyes.

“Who didn’t fall in love in college?” he says, surprised at the whimsy on his voice.

Clarke smiles, that same smile. “I hear ya,” she says, quietly. “What was their name?”

“Gina,” Bellamy says, not sure why he wants to. “We...wanted all of it, you know? Kids, dogs, the whole thing.”

“What happened?” Clarke asks, when he falls silent.

Bellamy folds his napkin.

What happened, it’s always the question. How do you explain falling out of love, knowing that it is beautiful, but it might not be enough? Gina wanted a family, Bellamy still had Octavia, and they couldn’t have her and kids and then both go through law school. 

He looks up, and Clarke is watching him again. Her eyes are full, not teary, but deep, and understanding. 

“I hear ya,” she says again, and smiles a little.

Bellamy thinks that maybe she actually does. 

The waiter comes back again, and Bellamy pays for his dinner (incredibly, Clarke does try to pay, even though she didn’t eat a thing). They’re in a comfortable silence as they walk along Jackson, to their cars. 

They get to Clarke’s first, which is great, because Bellamy really isn’t ready to deal with the indignation of his car screaming to life. Before he can say anything she holds out her hand. 

“My signature end of the date move,” she explains, wiggling her fingers. “Goodbye, better luck next time, all that.”

“Sláinte,” Bellamy offers, and Clarke laughs.

Her eyes sparkle, and she nods a little, then shakes his hand for show; Bellamy tries not to stare. Her nose wrinkles with this laugh, a small tell, for a genuine smile. 

He tucks his back into his jacket pocket as he steps back onto the curb. 

“Out of curiosity,” he says, as she’s turning to the car. Clarke stops, looking up at him, face open, and he keeps going before he tells himself it’s unprofessional. “If you were going to name tonight like an episode of Friends, what would it be?”

Clarke squints, looking out over the Sound, then back at him. “The one I didn’t see coming,” she says.

She ducks into the car before he has a chance to respond to that, which is probably a mercy, because Bellamy has no idea what he’d say. 

\-- 

Love Guaranteed HQ is in San Francisco, and when Bellamy emails Clarke the date he secured with the legal team, she responds twenty minutes later with a hyperlink to a First Class ticket from Seattle-Tacoma to San Francisco International, which is pretty damn efficient. 

It also saves them both from the awkward reimbursement dance. 

It’s only a two hour flight and they’re across the aisle from each other; Bellamy spends the flight going over case notes, and Clarke spends it reading some book that amuses her deeply, but Bellamy is pretty sure it’s in Latin. 

Not like a Latin title to a murder novel.

Like actual Latin, like the whole thing is in a dead language. 

He files that under things he would think about if she weren’t his client, but because she is, he doesn’t even need to unpack it. 

The office is right in downtown, and Bellamy pushes his shoulders back as they step out of the cab.

Clarke mutters something as they walk into the lobby, flanked by giant posters that look like Valentine’s cards. 

“What’s that?” Bellamy asks, after they’ve signed in at the desk, and been directed to overstuffed chairs to wait in. 

“I wonder if Brad and Veronica met via Love Guaranteed or just were responding to the same Crest Whitening Strips casting call.”

Bellamy looks to their right, to a ten foot tall poster of a couple with blindingly bright smiles. “Just because they’re implausibly attractive doesn’t mean they’re paid models,” he says, on principle.

He feels Clarke’s dubious expression. “I was in a sorority, Bellamy; I know the difference between a fake and a genuine smile.”

“Okay, yeah, so we can’t have this when we go upstairs.”

Clarke looks at him. “Are you really about to give me the ‘I do the talking’ lecture?”

“I do the talking,” Bellamy says.

“I can handle—”

“I’m not saying you can’t,” Bellamy interrupts. “But this is literally what you hired me for, right?”

Clarke cracks her knuckles, flexing her fingers, then lets them fall in her lap. “I guess so.”

“You guess so?” Bellamy presses.

“You do the talking,” Clarke mutters.

“Thank you,” Bellamy says.

“Ms. Diyoza will see you now,” an Amazonian secretary chimes.

They’re shown into a conference room the size of a football field, and Bellamy can practically hear Clarke choking down a million quick retorts. Everyone in the room is over 50, and the only other woman is Charmaine Diyoza, sitting at the end of a cartoonishly long table, smiling serenely. 

“Miss Griffin,” she sighs. 

“Ms. Diyoza,” Clarke smiles.

“Gentleman,” Bellamy says, nodding at the veritable fleet of lawyers flanking the table.

“We so disappointed to hear about this little problem you’ve been having, Miss Griffin.”

“My client,” Bellamy says, pointedly, “has filed a complaint as per the Deceptive Trade Practice Act. Corporations are barred from engaging in misrepresentation, bait and switch advertising, and other fraudulent behaviors to promote their products.”

Charmaine hums. 

“Mr. McCreary,” she says. 

“We,” says a grisly man to her left, passing an envelope down the line of lawyers like a ripple, “have a very generous settlement to offer. $100,000, with a signed non-disclosure agreement.”

Clarke scoffs, and turns it into a very unconvincing cough.

“That amount,” Bellamy says, cutting her a look, “doesn’t even begin to cover the expenses of my client’s dates, spent in good faith, towards a legally binding term advertised and trademarked by this company. We have a case, and everyone here knows the severity of this terminology.”

“What are you asking for, Mr. Blake?” Charmaine asks, and no one misses that her voice has dropped an octave. 

“$500,000 in restitution,” Bellamy says, voice steady. “And your company drops all language of a love guarantee from its website, app, and advertising. And I will need to review any NDA before my client signs it.”

“This isn’t a negotiation,” McCreary says. 

Bellamy frowns. “This is a liti—”

“We’ve looked into your company, Mr. Blake,” Charmaine says, lilt restored. “Your crusade for justice, however noble, is hardly keeping your practice afloat, is it?”

“That—” Bellamy breaks off. “That’s irrelevant to my client’s case.”

Charmaine smiles. “Quite right, dear. Just thought I’d mention it.”

“Take the settlement,” McCreary says.

Bellamy ignores him, looking back to the head of the table. “Ms. Diyoza—”

“Do you know why I hired Bellamy?”

All heads in the room whip to the blonde as she speaks, Bellamy’s included. 

“Clarke…” he warns, but she lifts a hand under the table, just a little motion, for him to see. 

“Because,” she says, voice rising, “he takes on cases that he doesn’t have to, to his own detriment—as you’ve not so kindly mentioned, real classy move to bring that up, by the way—because he’s principled and driven and decent, okay? Before he even took this case, he was introduced to me as someone who would champion causes that deserve to be fought, refuses to be cowed by corporations because they have lines of lawyers with haircuts like they’re on the Peaky Blinders because someone told them it looked cool.” 

Bellamy wasn’t expecting that. 

Clarke’s eyes are snapping, but her voice is clear, steady, and her chin is raised.

She’s magnificent. 

“That’s all well and good, Miss Griffin,” Charmaine says calmly. “But I have a billion-dollar empire to run, and it doesn’t have much time for your Zorro routine.” 

“Take the deal, Miss Griffin,” McCreary pushes. 

Clarke sits back in her chair, then looks over at Bellamy. 

The corner of her mouth turns up, and she lifts a hand over the table, go ahead. 

“We’ll see you in court, Ms. Diyoza,” Bellamy says, standing. “Where we will request a million dollars in punitive damages.”

Clarke stands, too. “See you,” she smiles.

And they walk out of the boardroom together. 

\--

The court date is set for six weeks out, and Bellamy thinks he actually might pull this off. He’s interviewed more dates than he can count and memorized every word of Love Guaranteed fine print. Miller lights the candle they reserve for when the Seahawks play, and Octavia has stopped leaving the porchlight on at the duplex, since Bellamy’s rarely home to see it. 

He’s been putting off going to see Lexa. 

She’s not one of the Love Guaranteed matches, that much Bellamy knows, but beyond that, he doesn’t have much. 

He’s pretty sure Charmaine’s going to try to come for Clarke’s character, and he doesn’t want there to be any surprises, but exes independent of the app...surely some things are off limits? 

He gets a lunch hour with her. 

She lives a decent way out of town, the kind of area where there’s acres between houses and Bellamy parks the car kind of far down the driveway so the grinding gears don’t disrupt anything. She answers the door just soon enough after he rings that he knows she’s waiting, and Bellamy follows her out to her backyard, where they’re served tea, by another person whose job is to serve tea.

They make small talk, Lexa probes a little too pointedly into how much and why Bellamy cares about Clarke’s dating history, and Bellamy finds out that Lexa and Clarke’s relationship ended two years ago—it predates his case. 

It’s a long drive back to the city, and Bellamy doesn’t want to pry too deeply into why he’s so contemplative. 

He sleeps at the office. 

Sunday morning he wakes up at his desk, his face pressed against case files and his phone ringing. He pushes a couple of files off the desk trying to grab it and answers it without looking. 

“Hello,” he mumbles.

“Hmm,” a voice says, and Bellamy elects to ignore how he knows exactly who it is without her speaking a word. “Why did I think you were a morning person?”

“I am,” Bellamy says, sitting up, squinting at the watch on his wrist. “To some people, 8am on a Sunday is still Saturday night.”

Clarke laughs, and Bellamy elects to ignore his reaction to that sound as well. 

“Since my intuition is 1:1, I’m going to throw another guess at you, see if it sticks,” she says.

“Shoot,” Bellamy rubs the side of his face, wondering if he can go out and get coffee without the entire downtown knowing he slept in his desk chair. 

“Are you at the office?”

Bellamy wonders for a minute if he has his location turned on, but then remembers this is a client, not anything else, and so it wouldn’t matter if he did. 

“I am,” he says, clearing his throat. “I am, yeah.”

“Cool. I want to go over some things, so I’ll swing by. Meet you in the lobby in three?”

“In three?” Bellamy asks, suddenly much more awake. He moves the mouse of his computer, clicking a couple buttons to turn the front facing camera on, and grimaces when he sees his reflection. 

“I might’ve preemptively headed your way,” Clarke says. “I brought you coffee; it’ll be fun.”

“What kind of coffee?” Bellamy asks, pulling a hand through his hair, making a face at his reflection when his curls don’t cooperate. 

“Pumpkin spice latte, right?” Clarke says innocently, and she hangs up before he can say anything else. 

Not that this is a repeat occurrence, but Bellamy keeps a toothbrush and some face soap in a drawer in the office bathroom, for occasions such as this. It might be more like four minutes before he’s down in the lobby, but he looks like someone who’s been awake for at least an hour, and that’s no small victory. 

Clarke has a funny expression on her face when she sees him. 

A moment later it’s gone, and she holds out a cup to him. 

“This is a good look,” she says, simply. 

Bellamy looks down—normal weekend wear, a sweater, jeans, glasses—and Clarke shrugs when she looks back at him. 

“Not to be too Charmaine Diyoza,” she says, almost guiltily. “Your suits are a little passé.” 

Bellamy takes the coffee instead of responding to that. 

It’s not a PSL.

It’s an americano and he’s not sure when he told her that, but she looks awfully smug for it to have been a mistake. 

She tips her head and he follows her outside.

She’d said she wanted to discuss some things about the case, and Bellamy answers the questions she has about the proceedings, following the conversation and her lead as they walk along. 

The leaves are changing a bit along the Sound, and Bellamy locks down the part of his brain that’s dying to make metaphors out of it. 

After about an hour, Clarke takes a sip of whatever’s in her coffee cup, and makes a face. “That’s how I know I’ve been talking too much—it’s cold.”

“Not too much,” Bellamy corrects, because he has to. “They were good questions.”

Clarke tips her head back, draining the cup, and then tosses it at a trashcan as they walk by. “Well, I’m all out now.”

They walk in silence for a bit, the crisp air rolling off the sea and rustling through the leaves. In the early morning light, the city is something still, fresh. Bellamy knows the country has been awake for hours; it’s already afternoon in New York, but something about this feels new. 

Clarke’s nose is turning red from the chill, just slightly. 

Her hair is blowing around her face and she squints in the sun—blue eyes, weaker, softer—and he should probably let the silence rest, but he can’t. 

“I misjudged you,” he says.

She looks at him as they walk, and her expression tells him that she knows, but she doesn’t blame him. 

“Human nature,” she says, shoulders lifting though her hands stay in her pockets. “We’re good at making sense of things by packaging them.”

It’s a realistic world view, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it. 

“And I you,” she says, quietly, and then she’s looking back over the Sound, and Bellamy stores that away too. 

He doesn’t know how long they walk, but suddenly it’s lunch and they’re at Pike Place, which Bellamy knows any Seattleite worth their salt would steer clear of, but when he says as much to Clarke, she refuses to leave. 

“People fly from all over the country to be here,” she tells him, weaving their way through the crowded stalls. “And you’re going to stay away to prove you’re local? To whom?”

He doesn’t tell her he wasn’t going to fight her on this, no matter what. 

She buys some flowers, something pretty and wild that he never would’ve put together and has him hold it, then they watch the fish chucked across counters. Clarke forges her way through the throngs to the main arcade, where she orders something from the counter, and then points for him to go upstairs, yelling to save seats.

He holds the flowers above his head and does as told, securing a window table on the third floor. 

Five minutes later, Clarke joins him, juggling hot plates with diner-sized servings of potatoes and coffee mugs and—Bellamy can just hear Marcus chortling—omelets. 

They eat watching the ferries float in and out of the Sound, and Bellamy makes his mind stay present. 

At some point, Clarke lets it slip that the proceeds from the case are going to go to adding a wing at the PT center. A rehabilitation center for kids who need special time and attention, and starting a scholarship fund. 

They walk on. 

When Bellamy remembers to check his phone, he has a missed call from Octavia, asking him to head home, if he gets a chance. 

He really should check in, and Clarke seems kind of at a loss, and he has case files back at the Duplex anyways, and it seems like the most natural thing for her to come over anyways.

Just casually. 

For case preparation reasons. 

In the parking spot outside the house, Bellamy knows he has to, so he tells her about his trip out of town, to see Lexa.

Clarke is quiet for a moment. 

He wishes he didn’t have to say it, but she should know that he checked in on her, even if he didn’t know the relationship pre-dated the case.

Not ex-girlfriend, Clarke corrects him, ex-fiancée.

Bellamy’s doubly sorry. 

A month before the wedding, Lexa had moved out, no warning, no explanation, but profuse apologies. Turned out, she’s happy now, with Costia, and Clarke doesn’t resent that for either of them. She just wishes the timing had been better. 

Bellamy doesn’t know what to say, but he realizes he’s holding her hand.

Clarke realizes it, too.

A shout comes from Octavia’s apartment, and Bellamy’s out of the car in a flash, Clarke close behind him. 

“O?” he yells, bursting into the apartment. “Are you okay?”

“Hi,” Octavia says, a manic smile in place, perched on the couch. Ethan is sitting beside her, expression blank, and there’s a banging upstairs. 

“Hi,” Bellamy says suspiciously. “Uh…?”

“My water broke,” Octavia smiles, then looks past him. “You must be Clarke.”

“Uh??” Bellamy says. 

“Hi,” Clarke says, looking between the two of them. “Yeah, hi, that’s me. We heard a scream?”

“Oh, that would be Lincoln.”

The stairs thunder and Lincoln runs down them, eyes wide.

“Bellamy!” he booms. “Thank God you’re here. I can’t find the keys, where are the keys?? We have to get to the hospital, like now, where are the—”

“Bellamy talks about you all the time,” Octavia says, still calm, to Clarke.

“I wouldn't say all the time, O?” Bellamy tries, but he can feel Clarke preening. 

“I would, I would say all the time,” Octavia shrugs. 

“Of course he does,” Clarke actually tucks her hair behind her ear. “I’m his favorite client.”

“The keys!!!” Lincoln yells, from the kitchen. “Where are the—”

Bellamy hears a suspicious jangling sound and Octavia hears it too. 

“Hand,” they both call, and a moment later, Lincoln appears in the door, keys in his left hand. 

“They were here,” he says. 

“Good job, babe,” Octavia smiles. “I would love to not have this baby in the car, if that’s okay?”

Lincoln is struggling with a baby bag. “Right. Right. Okay, it’s gonna be fine—” he breaks off when he sees Clarke. “We haven’t met yet, I’m—”

“Babe!” Octavia snaps. “Do you want your child to be named I-90?”

“I’m Clarke,” Clarke says. “Drive fast.”

Lincoln nods, eyes still a little wide, and Bellamy helps his sister to her feet. As soon as Lincoln is close enough she latches onto her husband instead. 

“Okay, sweetie,” O says, turning back to Ethan. “Be good for Uncle Bell, yeah? Or like...less of a demon, got it?”

Ethan nods, and then Lincoln hurries his wife out of the door. There’s some more general sounds of panic as Octavia is loaded into the car, then the engine starts and the house is quiet. 

Bellamy and Clarke look at each other and then at the silent 5-year-old on the couch. 

He looks back at them. 

“I should tell you that I’m not great with kids.” Clarke says it without changing her expression, somehow managing to enunciate impossibly clearly through a leaden smile. 

“Yeah, that makes two of us.” Bellamy says. 

There seems to be an unspoken rule that none of them are gonna blink. 

“Okay, I call dishes,” Clarke says in a rush, whirling on the spot and heading for the kitchen. 

Bellamy makes a ‘stay’ gesture for his nephew like he’s a golden retriever, and follows Clarke quickly. 

“Hey, wait,” he says, grabbing her arm. 

She stops easily, turning fast, and Bellamy stumbles back a little. He wasn’t ready for that closeness, or for the almost smile on her face. 

“Um,” he says, dropping her arm. “You don’t have to stay. I know you came over to continue to talk about the case and—”

“Bellamy,” Clarke shakes her head. “I’m going to help out. You have to deal with that though, because I called dishes.”

“Seriously,” Bellamy tries again. “You don’t have to.”

“I know, but I will,” Clarke says, simple as that. 

Simple as that. 

He goes back to the living room, grateful that the sound of running water from the kitchen drowns out the sound of Ethan asking him why he’s smiling like that.

The good cheer lasts a beautiful forty minutes.

Then Ethan is on the couch, screaming and rearranging the upholstery, probably, and Bellamy knows that whatever Octavia is going through at the hospital is much much worse, but a gremlin part of his brain wonders if maybe it isn’t. 

“Have any laudanum?” Clarke says, coming into the doorway of the living room, crossing her arms and wincing as Ethan hurls a fire truck across the room. “Whiskey will do. In a pinch.”

“We’re not drugging my sister’s kid,” Bellamy says.

“I meant for me,” Clarke mutters. “Does he have an off switch?”

“Bedtime, kiddo,” Bellamy calls, and Ethan looks him straight in the face, draws a deep breath and continues his wail as he stoically marches up the stairs.

He doesn’t break cadence for the steps, and the sound barely fades as he goes into his room.

There’s some modulation when he starts jumping on the bed, which is a nice touch. 

“Whiskey,” Clarke says again. “Will do in a pinch.”

Bellamy is sorely tempted. 

But his sister’s in the hospital, and he did make a promise…

He drags himself upstairs. 

He’s by the bedside, pleading with Ethan to consider opening a window of negotiation about bedtime and the kid is not entertaining a word of it.

Clarke appears with ice cream and wordlessly holds it out to Ethan. 

When he reaches for it, she pulls it back, raising an eyebrow. 

He crawls into bed. 

She gives him the ice cream and a spoon.

Blessed silence. 

“Should we…” Bellamy asks in a hushed voice, as he backs out of the room. “I don’t know, worry about portion control?”

“He’s a kid, he’s made for metabolization at this point,” Clarke says, back fully turned.

“Brush his teeth?” Bellamy asks, turning off the light.

“They’ll fall out in another couple years,” she calls from out in the hallway. 

“Worry about spilling on the sheets?”

“They will wash,” she calls, voice rising as she bounds down the stairs. 

When he comes down the stairs, she’s on the couch, eyes closed and feet on the ottoman, rubbing her temples. 

“Is it rude to say that next time I’ll bring holy water?” she asks, not moving as he joins her. 

Bellamy sits a respectable distance away from her on the couch, unsure what to say since his brain shorted after ‘next time’. 

She doesn’t seem to mind. 

Bellamy smiles to himself, closing his eyes for a moment, enjoying the blessed silence for just a moment…

Maybe he falls asleep on the couch. 

Maybe he wakes up an indefinite number of hours later, to a text from Lincoln with a blurry picture and status update (7lb 3 oz of healthy, beautiful daughter, mother and child are resting).

Maybe the only person he can think to want to show it to is right next to him, her forehead drooped against his shoulder as she sleeps, and he thinks the birth announcement can maybe wait a little longer. 

\-- 

Monday is a rude awakening. 

All Mondays are, of course, but this one is a special brand of hellish. 

It starts with a fax from McCreary, and a quick phone call following. It’s pictures, and Bellamy can’t believe he has to process this, of him and Clarke, yesterday at Pike’s. They look happy, they look...more than happy. 

Paxton McCreary reminds him that the subscriber’s guarantee promises readers that they will find love via Love Guaranteed. And Bellamy’s initial reaction is ‘no shit’, that’s the whole premise, when the other shoe drops. 

The contract doesn’t stipulate that dates have to be arranged on the site, only that, because of it, subscribers find love because of it.

Is this…?

It can’t be. 

It’s not love, it’s exhaustion, coupled with a harmless little crush.

MsCreary offers the $100k again, and Bellamy hangs up before be says something really, really dumb to one of the most powerful lawyers in the country. 

He ignores Miller’s questions about the photos in the fax tray, just grabs his coat and heads out. Walks without direction, mind whirring. 

What he’s feeling, what he’s felt, Clarke, what he’s felt for her, what this case means to both of them...what losing this case will mean to both of them. 

He calls her.

She answers on the third ring, and her voice sounds like those pictures look and Bellamy clenches his hands into fists. 

Tells her that he needs to focus on the case, that they shouldn’t see each other right now. 

Thanks her for her help this weekend. 

Reminds her that she hired him for a reason, to win, and that he’s doing what’s right for both of them. 

And hangs up before he can hear the change in her voice when he asks her to respect that.

\-- 

The court is crawling with the press.

Bellamy’s not surprised; this case is primed for local news outlets, and Charmaine’s name is enough to make it a deal to a couple channels beyond Washington. 

Still, he would’ve loved to have the first time he interacts with Clarke in over a month not be in front of dozens of cameras and clamoring reporters. 

Not that it can really be called interacting. 

She smiles her perfect smile, the one where her nose doesn’t wrinkle. She puts her shoulders back slightly, raises her chin and walks into the courthouse like she’s walking alone.

In a way, she is. 

But it’s what’s right, it’s what will protect this case.

It’s what will protect this children’s wing. 

It’s protecting her. 

When he’s called for his opening statement, she doesn’t look at him. 

In the audience, he seems Miller and Raven, Murphy and Emori. They smile at him, and he turns to the jury. 

“What price,” he begins, the statement he’s crafted so carefully, the words that are so close to being honest, “would you pay for love?”

He looks at the jury, a fair demographic, makes eye contact with each of them. They look back, determined to be fair, and he watches each of them consider. 

“Almost anything,” he says, after a moment. “Right?”

Some of them nod, some of them track. 

It doesn’t matter, they’re hearing him. 

“Well,” Bellamy breaks away from the bandstand, pushing the solemnity down his throat, willing his chest to open, to breathe, “for twenty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents a month, Love Guaranteed ensures that their website and app will find you that love. A thousand dates, that’s it. Love is yours. Guaranteed.”

A couple older members of the jury shake their heads, in spite of themselves. 

I know, Bellamy wants to tell them. Love isn’t a formula, it’s not a statistic, it’s something that happens and it’s random and it’s ridiculous, you’re just walking down a street and someone decides to make fun of your coffee order—

“My client,” Bellamy says, lifting an arm to gesture to the bench, “Clarke Griffin. She followed the rules. She went on a thousand—three zeroes, mind you—dates.”

He pauses for laughter. 

“Clarke Griffin,” he says, and he can’t look at her, or the court room, or anywhere, “did not find love. She followed through as best as she could. Love Guaranteed did not do the same.”

The room goes silent. 

He can hear them thinking it—a thousand dates and nothing?

You don’t know the half of it, he wants to tell them. She is smart, and clever, and compassionate, and kind and funny, and has the most radiant real smile…

“Over the course of this trial,” Bellamy says, redirecting himself to the jurors, “the evidence will prove that Love Guaranteed cares more for profits than they do for the well being of their subscribers. Clarke Griffin asks that you hold Love Guaranteed responsible for their wrongful actions. Thank you.”

McCreary’s statement is to be expected— Love Guaranteed stands by their promise to deliver love for those truly looking for it. But was Clarke truly looking, or was this just a gotcha lawsuit for a quick buck?

Bellamy wants to sink into his seat when he realizes what they’re in for. Interviews. Lots of interviews. 

And he should know—he’s conducted these himself. 

When they trot in Clarke’s dates, Bellamy’s relieved to find that everyone who takes the stand, he’s talked to. 

And they say the same thing they told him: perfectly lovely date, absolutely kind and respectful and considerate. Funny, on occasion, chivalrous, a good time. But not their match. 

For his witnesses, he calls a series of doctors. Some behavioral, some counselors, some neuroscientists, and all of them say what the jury knows to be true. Love cannot be guaranteed. It can be prompted, it can be simulated, it can be mimicked. But it cannot be predicted.

“It cannot,” Bellamy reiterates, holding Charmaine’s eye, “be guaranteed.” 

Day one wraps as expected. 

Lots of flexing, lots of testing, no real ground gained. 

Day two, the defense calls Lexa. 

And Bellamy has two choices, in this moment: leave her for the defense to cajole, or talk to Clarke’s ex-fiancée in front of a court of law. 

He comes before the stand. 

“I’m not going to be coy, Ms. Woods,” he says, and Lexa looks like she appreciates that. “I presume the defense named you in hopes to reflect negatively on Ms. Griffin’s character.”

Lexa inclines her head. “That’s why I was approached, yes.”

“Objection,” calls McCreary. “Leading the witness.”

The judge waves a hand, and Lexa continues. “When I first heard of a thousand dates, it did sound excessive. Just analytically, that number is enormous. A thousand? But...here’s the thing with Clarke, Mr. Blake. She’s honest. To a fault.”

Lexa breaks from Bellamy, looking back to the Prosecutor’s bench. Lexa smiles, slightly, a look of peace, then back to the jury. “If I know one thing about that woman on that bench,” she says, voice regal. “It’s the integrity at the core of her being. She’s not hear for a quick win, a cash grab. She’s here because she believes in it. I wish her well, and I hope you can make the right decision.”

McCreary looks like he might tear out his hair, and Charmaine looks like she might beat him to it. 

“No further questions, your honor,” Bellamy says, quickly, not wanting to interrupt the spell Lexa has the jury under. 

“Defense, your witness,” the judge intones.

McCreary shakes his head. 

“You’re dismissed, Miss Woods,” the judge says.

Lexa leaves and Bellamy finds his seat again. 

That went well, that went better than he could’ve expected. He just took the defense’s star witness, the case-closing witness but still he feels uneasy.

“The Defense calls to the stand,” the judge begins, and then looks down at them. “Clarke Griffin.”

Shit. 

Bellamy’s already led Clarke through the prosecution; the court has already taken her statement. The only reason for McCreary to call her now is the same reason he sent the pictures to Bellamy. 

It’s enough, he reminds himself. 

Five weeks of radio silence, five weeks of ignoring phone calls and every instinct in his body that said she’s worth more than this case.

It’s enough. 

There’s nothing for Clarke to say, nothing that five weeks of emptiness haven’t starved out of her system, and it’ll be worth it. 

For her, for her integrity, for this case, for the children’s wing. 

It’s worth it. 

Bellamy smiles, reassuring, but she doesn’t look at him when she’s sworn in. 

“Miss Griffin,” McCreary says, coming to his place in front of the stand. “Please tell the court why you started this penchant.”

Clarke purses her lips. “For justice. I...I know it sounds dramatic, but that’s what it was. I was broken and hurting when I started my subscription with this company. I wanted someone to crawl up next to me, complete me.”

“And you searched for a thousand dates, for that someone?” McCreary asks. 

“I did,” Clarke agrees. “I did. And along the way I met a thousand people who were equally hurting. And as I sat with each of them, I learned each of them was searching. And I thought about how this company was throwing us at each other, encouraging us to further break ourselves against each other, and I kept searching and the numbers got higher and higher.”

“Did you find love?” McCreary asks. 

Clarke blinks. “What?”

“Did you find love, Miss Griffin?”

Clarke shifts in her seat, looking down at her hands. “Not on a thousand dates,” she says quietly. 

A murmur of sympathy goes across the courtroom. 

McCreary sighs. 

“I’m afraid, Miss Griffin, that’s not quite what I asked.”

Clarke looks up. “Pardon?”

“Miss Griffin,” McCreary turns from the booth, striding back to his bench. He retrieves a piece of paper, and brings it back to the witness stand, placing it in front of Clarke. “Will you read the highlighted portion of the Subscriber’s Agreement for me, Miss Griffin?”

Clarke frowns, looking down at the paper. She clears her throat, reading the words that have been etched into Bellamy’s subconscious for weeks now. 

“Love Guaranteed,” she reads, “guarantees its subscribers that they will find love via Love Guaranteed.”

“Does that claim, Miss Griffin,” McCreary says, taking the paper from in front of Clarke and lifting it to the judge, “say anything about dates being arranged via the app?”

Clarke shakes her head. “No.”

“Or about dates being found on the app?”

“No.”

“Only about love being found because of the app,” McCreary says slowly. 

The room is silent. 

Bellamy can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips, every part of him tensed as he waits for her to understand. 

He sees the moment that she does; an almost jarring reaction when her eyes fly to his. 

“That’s what I thought,” McCreary sighs. “So. If a plaintiff were to seek a claim against Love Guaranteed, and in the process of that Legal endeavor, were to develop an attachment for a party with whom they would not have interacted had Love Guaranteed not been the impetus for the relationship, then the defense could state that love was found because of the app.”

Clarke’s eyes haven’t left Bellamy and she shakes her head slightly. 

“Is that why?” she asks, in the smallest voice. 

But she’s not asking McCreary. 

“Miss Griffin,” the judge says, sympathy lacing her voice. “You’re on the stand; please only address the defendant.”

“Is that why?” Clarke repeats, and she’s standing now. “Did you know; is that why?”

The courtroom titters and Bellamy hears the murmur growing as understanding dawns. 

She was so close, he thinks, achingly, so close to saving the hospital wing and the lawsuit…

The judge bangs the gavel down. “I will have order in my court!” she cries. “Miss Griffin, please.”

Clarke jolts, like she’s remembering where she is. She looks at the judge, then back at Bellamy, and the strangest expression is on her face.

She sits down. 

“It seems a good time to remind you, Miss Griffin,” McCreary says calmly. “That you are under oath. I will ask you one question, Miss Griffin: are you in love with your lawyer?”

“Objection!” Bellamy yells, jumping to his feet, but it’s lost in the roar of the crowd and the banging of a gavel as the judge demands order. 

Clarke has a hand over her mouth and her eyes are brimming and Bellamy feels like the whole room is echoing and quiet at once, and it’s just her and her blue, blue eyes, looking at him. 

She stands suddenly, and the room quiets, awed. 

“Order!” the judge demands. “Miss Griffin, answer the question.”

Clarke looks at Bellamy, around the courtroom, and back at him. She smiles, and her nose wrinkles, and Bellamy’s heart catapults. 

“Your honor,” she says, and it comes as a whisper, so she clears her throat and tries again. “Your honor. I’m dropping the lawsuit. I’m under oath and even if I weren’t, I’d rather have love and lose this case than the other way around.”

The judge’s jaw drops. “You’re dropping the—”

“I absolutely am,” Clarke says. She laughs, suddenly, the sound that stopped Bellamy cold in front of Il Terrazzo Carmine, and claps her hands over her mouth. She pulls them down, looking at Bellamy. 

It blurs.

The courtroom, the verdict, everything in the world blurs, and Clarke rushes off the witness stand. Bellamy’s sure it can’t be happening, it must be a mistake, but then Clarke is in front of him, and what else can he do but reach for her when she’s close enough and kiss her.

She laughs against him, her arms come around his neck and someone's cheering, probably Murphy or Miller or both, and Bellamy couldn’t care less that he’s just lost the most important case of his career. 

Because he has the most amazing woman in his arms, and if he opens his eyes, he knows she’ll be smiling, and he would lose anything, everything, all over again, for this moment. 

\-- 

Later, Charmaine Diyoza will waltz into Blake and Miller Associates

She will make an offer to pay all legal fees, and donate two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to the rehabilitation center. 

She will accept a counter-offer of a five hundred thousand dollar donation. 

Later, it will be announced that a physical therapist and civil litigator from Seattle will be the face of Love Guaranteed’s newest ad campaign, and it might not be the happily ever after of fairy tales, but it’s not half bad for the twenty-first century. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> oooo this fic did not come easy! hope you love it, trish ♥


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